Ghostwriter
by rewritetheending
Summary: After Kate disappears, Castle will do whatever it takes to get her back, even if it means playing along with Jerry Tyson's dangerous game. But given the similarities between psychopaths and mystery writers, does Castle have an advantage that even 3XK hadn't considered? A multi-chapter mystery AU taking off from the end of Resurrection (7x14).
1. Chapter 1

He winked.

That son of a bitch _winked_ and it confirms everything Castle has been screaming for days; Michael Boudreau is Jerry Tyson and Jerry Tyson is 3XK and now Kate isn't answering her phone and that means they have her. It doesn't matter that the guilty parties were standing in front of him just seconds ago. No, they'd orchestrated the entire crime and ensuing investigation so that they'd have front row seats for his horrific realization. And as Tyson and Nieman descend in the elevator, Castle's heart drops right along with it; he's never wanted to be wrong so desperately.

Logic gone, he attempts to call again, certain now that she won't answer, but unable to stop nonetheless. Her voicemail taunts him, a punishment he deserves for not insisting that she be more careful, that she take back-up. For not convincing every damn person in the precinct that they are being manipulated by a master puppeteer and his scalpel-wielding partner.

He moves even as he presses the phone to his ear, pacing the bullpen and watching Ryan and Espo as they begin to bark orders and coordinate strategies with the uniforms who have quickly gathered around the murder board. Gates slams the door to her office and he notices that she's on the phone, too; he assumes she's not torturing herself with Kate's recording for the seventh time.

_You've reached the voicemail of Detective Kate Beckett…_

With that, he throws the phone against the nearest wall, momentarily satisfied at the way it crashes to the cold floor, silent and irreparably damaged. Another phone lost to the job, this one arguably his most careless mistake yet. If she tries to call him- _Shit._ But he's a millionaire and he knows a guy and he can get a new phone within minutes. He only wishes his fortune and charm could get his wife back, too. While using Kate's desk phone to make the necessary arrangements, he watches Ryan and Espo push Gates' door open just wide enough for a quick briefing, then grab their jackets from the backs of their chairs. He abruptly ends his call and nearly trips over himself to follow them.

He's just caught up when Espo speaks, not bothering to turn around. "Do you really think you should be coming with us? We don't know what happened yet, what we're gonna find. Could be another trap."

"You're crazy if you think I'm staying here."

Neither detective expected him to say anything else, both nodding in agreement, Esposito's question a mere formality. There's nowhere for him to be except right behind her team. In fact, with Tyson involved, he may be able to offer more insight than normal; he'll stand at their sides, ready to fight just as fiercely.

* * *

They start by driving to where Kate was supposed to be meeting Amy Barrett, still waiting for Tory to track down either woman's cell phone and pull the traffic cams from the intersection. Castle scrambles out of the car before Espo can even turn off the ignition, eyes darting madly through the darkness until he sees Kate's car parked several yards away.

"Over here!"

He gets yanked backward before he can run for the car, Espo's hand wrapped around his shoulder. "Hey, you can't just take off. What if the car's rigged? You getting blown to a million pieces isn't gonna help us find Beckett."

"The car isn't rigged." Castle starts forward again, shouting over his shoulder. "Tyson wouldn't have any fun if my death were that quick. He's still playing his game."

Ryan jogs up to his side, quiet and firm. "Then why play along? Tory's still working on the phones and traffic cams. We'll get someone else to pull cameras from the businesses near the car until we figure out who she's with and where they went. We can refuse to take the bait and we'll get him by doing things our way."

"Listen, you guys do whatever you need to do. Go by the book, follow the orders you get from Gates. I don't care. I'm going to get my wife back, and if that means following any crumbs Tyson's left behind, so be it. He can think he's got the upper hand for now."

"Castle, he _does_ have the upper hand."

He shakes his head at that, knowing it's true but refusing to accept it. He's written these characters before. He's written the bad guys' cunning crimes. And then he's written the perfectly placed clues that allow the heroes to win in the end. Now it's time to write this story.

Ignoring the kind logic and angry argument from the detectives – he _knows_ they are trying, that they love her like a sister – Castle approaches the abandoned car and only glances up and down the street before trying the door. It's unlocked, of course. He slides into the driver's seat, not concerned at all about prints; they already know who is responsible for her disappearance and Tyson's too smart to have left anything like that behind. It's still against procedure, and probably stupid, but he can't find it in him to care. Especially not when he sees the folded piece of paper taped to the car radio.

"What is it, bro?"

He turns his head at Espo's voice, but quickly brings his attention back to the note. Except that it's not a note. Not exactly. It looks like a page from a book.

It's a dedication page.

_To my heart, mind, and soul,_

_Perhaps our life together has been a prologue to this darker tale. One in which the bad guy finally wins._

_I'm not sure I can write it any other way._

Esposito takes it from him immediately, but Castle's already got it memorized, the words seared into his mind. And all the times he sat at his desk, searching for the right words for her, needing the perfect way to express his feelings, they all come back to him now. The moments collide in his head, most so clear and a few less so. Handwritten notes, the soft click of the keyboard. The images are fighting for his attention and he wants them gone. He can't live in the past when she needs him present. The memories insist, but he forces them away and looks around the rest of her car.

"There's a leaf here." It rests on the passenger seat, but he doesn't touch it, allowing for at least that much to be done properly. Ryan's on the phone several feet away, so Espo comes around to examine it more closely and call for techs to do a full sweep of the car. The leaf looks common enough, but they'll have the lab run it just in case; if it leads nowhere, Tyson is going to have to drop more obvious hints. The game will end too quickly if there's nothing solid to go on.

Everything else seems normal, so he climbs out of the car just in time for Ryan to end his call. "Okay, so Beckett's cell is still off, so Tory can't get a current location. Same for Amy Barrett's, which was probably a burner anyway. But she did catch them on a traffic cam."

"So where did they go?" He beats Espo to the obvious question, ready to chase whatever lead they've got.

Ryan nods up the street. "They went there, to the subway station. Traffic cams lose them at that point, but Tory pulled the cameras from underground and was able to follow them until they got on the train. She'll comb the footage from the stops after that, but it'll take a while."

_Shit._ Kate's getting further away by the minute and they're stalled. Unwilling to wait around, he marches toward the station. "Come on, let's retrace their steps. If there were clues left for us here, there may be more along the way."

"You really think he wants to be caught that badly?" Esposito's skepticism is nothing new, but it's pissing him off now. Fortunately, Ryan answers before he can.

"Like Castle said, it's a game. And Tyson doesn't really win if he's playing alone. He'll want to make sure Castle's following him so that he can prove that he's always a step ahead. That he's smarter." Ryan's eyes get wide and he stammers on. "Not that he is smarter. Just that he thinks he is. And hopes to prove it."

Esposito rolls his eyes but continues to follow them, reaching the stairs just behind them as they all hurry down. The familiar stench of the New York subway greets them, but Castle is far too concerned with taking in the visual details of the station to worry about it. He's certain there's something to be found and he doesn't want to waste any unnecessary time in this particular treasure hunt. The three of them make their way past the turnstiles and toward the platform where Kate was last seen, looking around the mostly-empty area, ignoring the screech of the rails as another train approaches.

He looks at the handful of waiting commuters, passes over the homeless man busking from the cold floor, and scans the ads lining the station walls. One of the MTA maps catches his eye and he lingers on it longer than he normally would. It's something he's seen hundreds of times before and it certainly shouldn't interest him more than usual; it's not like he'll be able to pick out Kate's location from the dozens of stops. Still, there's something about it – a déjà vu that can't be explained away by the many visits to stations like this one in his decades as a New Yorker. It's as though he's studied it recently, but he can't recall any reason to have done so. Book research? Perhaps, but now isn't the time to dwell on it.

It's then that he realizes the train has departed, a momentary quiet taking its place. Mostly quiet anyway, save for the distant trains travelling on other tracks, and the homeless man still slouched against the wall several feet away, wrapped in a shabby wool coat and playing his harmonica. The strains of the song are reaching Castle now and he freezes, willing himself not to be sick. His mouth opens, but he can't quite form the words, grasping at Ryan's arm instead.

"What is it, Castle? Do you see something?"

He shakes his head, summoning his voice from where it's still trapped. "The song."

Espo looks unimpressed. "From the homeless dude?"

"Yes, it's a message from them." He swallows hard and tries again, needing them to understand how important this is. "Nieman gave it to us before, on a USB drive hidden in a pen. It's 'We'll Meet Again' by Vera Lynn."

"Creepy." Ryan noticeably shudders while Castle suppresses the urge to do the same.

They move over to the guy, both detectives appearing eager to force an impromptu interrogation; Castle is far more interested in the man's hat. Or rather, the note that someone has pinned to it. He doesn't even need to reach for it to know exactly what it is, but he still needs the words printed upon it, so he squats down and brings his hands up gently, uninterested in spooking the blameless pawn. Once he's unfastened the piece of paper from the material, he stands and unfolds it.

Another dedication page.

* * *

A/N: My wonderful wife whispered this story idea in my ear and I practically tripped over myself for the chance to write it. It's a departure from my typical fics and a huge challenge, but I'm looking forward to having some of you join me on this little adventure.


	2. Chapter 2

_*Nine months earlier*_

The flames licked at his muscles, the fire first ignited somewhere along his spine and radiating outward until the nerves in his fingertips were singed. The heat was unbearable, the pain enough to make him wish he'd never tried to move. Finally brave enough to open his eyes, he looked for the telltale smoke that had to be emanating from the surface of his skin.

There was nothing.

Nothing except for expertly wrapped bandages, a handful of scrapes that remained visible, and shackles that kept his ankles and wrists bound to a bed. Shackles? What the hell had happened? He had to clear his head, focus on where he was and how to get away, but everything hurt so damn much that he slammed his eyes shut and willed himself to pass out again.

* * *

There was no way to tell how long he'd been asleep when he woke again, but at least the raw burn of pain had dulled to a steady ache, making room for the flash of panic previously lost to unconsciousness.

"My wedding…" It was supposed to be louder, his urgency intended but stifled by a voice that had yet to fully return. He cleared his throat and tried again. "What happened to my wedding? Where's Kate?"

A cool hand settled on his forehead, soothing even though something screamed at him that it was all wrong. "Shhhhhh, you need to rest, Mr. Castle. You've been in an accident and it won't do your recovery any good if you get upset. I gave you a sedative after you seemed to wake up in some pain earlier, but relaxing is so helpful in allowing your body to heal."

His eyes slowly adjusted to the smiling face leaning over his body, flinching when he recognized her. "Dr. Nieman."

"Yes, of course." She pulled her hand back and moved to assess what he could only assume were the injuries she'd carefully bandaged. "I've already called Jerry and he'll be along shortly. I'm sure he'll be able to address some of your confusion when he arrives."

"Jerry Tyson?"

Her look was one of pity; she seemed saddened that it was taking him so long to make sense of his situation. "Yes. Who else, Mr. Castle? Now, please, it's really best if you just take it easy. We hadn't wanted the accident to be quite so catastrophic, but those things tend to be a bit out of our control. I suppose the dramatics will only help our long-term goals here, and I certainly would have been more than happy to help correct any damage done to that face of yours, but alas, you've come through better than one might have expected."

"Long-term goals?" He felt like an idiot for choking out another barely coherent question, but his brain wasn't keeping up. He was in an accident, Dr. Nieman was tending to his wounds, and they were waiting for Jerry Tyson to explain where Kate was? It was a nightmare and he wondered if closing his eyes once more might bring him back to a reality in which he was reciting his vows to his beautiful bride.

Instead, he took the opportunity to survey the room to which he was confined. The cinder block walls made it seem cold and emptier than it actually was, and the exposed piping gave it an industrial edge. There was a large table on the opposite side of room, an empty folding chair tucked in at each of the two ends. He was set up on a makeshift hospital bed next to a table of medical supplies, presumably for Dr. Nieman's attentive care to the injuries he'd sustained. There were a couple of uncovered windows, which suggested that there was little chance of someone happening by and peering inside, and there were no obvious locks or hinges to give him hope of finding an easy way out through them. There was no door on the three walls he could see from his position, so he struggled to lean forward in an attempt to turn his aching body for a view of whatever was situated behind him.

He didn't get the chance.

A door slammed from somewhere over his shoulder and he heard the too-familiar voice. "You're not bothering the kind doctor with too many questions are you, Castle? I know you're always desperate for the whole story, but that's what got us into this little mess, isn't it? I really thought you might have learned by now. Sometimes it's better not to push for all the answers."

Jerry Tyson appeared alongside his bed, the calm arrogance practically palpable. It was the third time Castle had been the man's prisoner – from the motel room to the precinct's holding cell to his current accommodations – and something in his sedative-addled mind wanted to laugh at the lunacy of having an actual arch-nemesis. He was having visions of a villainous sneer, the cartoonish twirl of a mustache, and maniacal laughter, but it was too much and he had to shake himself free of it. 3XK was looking down upon him, awaiting his return to reality.

"I haven't pushed anything. I was getting _married_."

"I think we both know it was just a matter of time, so I took the opportunity to step in when I could."

Castle tried to find a logical argument, but he wasn't sure he was making any sense. Or that it mattered to this particular serial killer. "But you were gone. Free. The NYPD no longer has your case records. Everyone thinks you're dead. Why show your face now?"

Tyson shook his head, seemingly disappointed. "No, no, no. _You_ never thought I was dead. And _you_ are the one who likes to keep poking around."

"Okay, but nobody believes me that you're still alive. So let me out of here and I'll forget about all of it."

It was such a terrible lie that even Dr. Nieman had trouble stifling a condescending smile. She quickly busied herself with an unnecessary check of his bandages, while Tyson called him out. "Even if you think you believe that now, it would never last once you're reunited with your darling detective. She has an incessant thirst for justice and I've become your own pet project. Ignoring you for long would be a tactical error on my part."

They were talking in circles and Castle shifted against the firm mattress. He needed to move the conversation forward. "And instead of ignoring me, you reappear just enough to taunt me. To let me know you're still watching." He did his best to crack a smile. "Why go through so much trouble to kidnap me on my wedding day? You couldn't just get us a gift like everyone else? Your sidekick seems to be pretty adept with sharp objects…I'm sure she could have engraved a punch bowl or something."

"Well, sure, some of it is just to taunt you. The cat and mouse game is old, but it's a classic for a reason. And some of it is because the chaos is entertaining." Tyson tilted his head, almost as though he was wondering how much more to give away, but he got interrupted before he could say anything more.

"I know you two have a lot to discuss, but our patient needs to eat something. He'll be of no use physically or mentally if we don't help him recover from his accident first."

They both looked at Nieman, Tyson with an edge of irritation and Castle with a wave of nausea; Tyson slipped back into nonchalance quickly. "Sure, let's bring him over to the table and give him some dinner. I want him alert for the rest of this conversation."

Absolutely no good could come of whatever "conversation" 3XK wanted to have with him and Castle knew it. The brightness of Tyson's eyes, the smirk on his face…everything was about to go from bad to worse. Even the slightest movement of his legs reminded him of the restraints there and he could see the ones that kept his arms in place, but staying in the bed while he figured out an escape seemed safer than sharing a meal with his captor.

"I don't want to eat anything. We can talk here."

Dr. Nieman leaned over him, a gentle hand covering his. Her creepy kindness was something he wished he could rely upon. "Mr. Castle, I'm afraid I must insist. If you won't eat a proper dinner, I'll be forced to feed you intravenously, and I'd really rather spare you that trouble after everything else you've been through today. Please, go sit with Jerry."

As she spoke, she began to unfasten each of the shackles while Tyson stood nearby to observe. Their dynamic was interesting; Tyson appeared to be in charge of the operation as a whole, but Nieman clearly had her domain and held firm to that control.

Almost subconsciously, Castle rotated his ankles and rubbed at his wrists as soon as they were free, grateful for the ability to move. Unfortunately, he realized that any passing thought of fighting his way out of the room would have to wait until he had regained his strength. Whether it was the drugs or the accident, he was in no shape to take on a physical altercation and that knowledge disheartened him. Nieman helped swing his legs to the side of the bed so that he could be helped up, and Tyson silently led them across the room. He damn near fell into the chair that awaited him, so the doctor's next warning was almost laughable.

"It will be best if you don't exert yourself too much, Mr. Castle. Simply enjoy your dinner and don't think about running away from us. You won't get far." She slipped away, presumably to fetch the food, and he found himself blinking wearily at Tyson, bracing himself for the impending discussion.

"So, as I was saying earlier, toying with you is fun for me. I enjoy the chaos I can bring to your life and, trust me, there will plenty of that to come. But the main reason I've brought you here is so that you can help me with my next little plan."

Castle barked out a laugh, derisive and channeling his fiancée with the perfect arch of his eyebrow. "Since when do you need my help? And what makes you think I'd give it?"

"You'll give it because you won't have any other option. And I'm afraid you weren't listening very carefully. We'll need to work on that." Tyson leaned forward on his elbows, lowering his voice. "I don't _need_ your help. I _want _your help."

There was no choice but to hear him out, to understand why 3XK was so intent on collaborating on a new, most likely homicidal, mission. "Go on."

"We're a lot alike, you and I. Using our creativity to craft flawless tales of crime, play with our respective audiences, find the twist that causes everyone to gasp as the truth sinks in. It's amusing from our perspective, seeing how easy it is to manipulate everyone, isn't it?" Castle didn't offer a response and Tyson didn't wait for one. "This time, I thought it might be fun to co-author the next mystery. Or, more accurately, I'll take the credit while you ghostwrite it."

"But _why_?"

"Because. I. Can." Each word was punctuated with increasing frustration. "You're going to write me the perfect abduction and murder, and I'm going to execute it for the whole world to see."

The doom settled heavily against Castle's shoulders, spilling down his chest and making it difficult to breathe. Somehow, he knew the answer to his next question before he even gave it a voice. "And the victim?"

"Kate Beckett, of course."


	3. Chapter 3

Castle takes a deep breath before focusing on the words in front of him, both Ryan and Esposito appearing to give him a private moment before they confiscate the page and tear into the homeless man who sits at their feet.

_To the one who rejoices in the smiles of others,_

_Your past has never defined you, though its influence is undeniable. Remember it well, and let it guide you forward. Each step will bring you closer to your own smile._

It's a bit cumbersome and doesn't have the simplicity he'd typically employ for a book dedication to Kate, but it does seem like something he'd say to encourage her, so he'll give Tyson some credit for that; he's done his homework. And he's certainly grateful it doesn't carry the same ominous tone as the first dedication page. This one is far more hopeful. He hands it over to Esposito and watches as Ryan carefully questions their only witness, a man who still seems unaware of the commotion playing out before him.

The guy is muttering something about the nice lady fixing his hat for him, and Castle supposes it was either Kelly Nieman or Amy Barrett who delivered the note on Tyson's behalf. It doesn't matter much to him anyway; none of this particular line of questioning is going to be all that helpful. For one, the man isn't lucid enough to do much more than mumble. And for another, it's not as though they don't know who they're chasing; dusting for prints or bringing in a sketch artist or questioning additional witnesses will get them nowhere. No, they just need to figure out _where _Kate has gone.

Unfortunately, there's little Tory can do when there are another thirty stations on the line that could have been their next stop, and not even their final destination. He wanders back to the MTA map he'd ignored earlier, peering past the dirty, heavily scratched plastic and studying the details of the colorful web sprawled along the subway station wall. It's overwhelming, the number of places they could have gone. Would there be any reason to go to the 9/11 Memorial? What about hiding among the tourists in Times Square? Or riding all the way to Queens?

He is losing hope, and on the verge of a complete breakdown, until something makes his heart catch for no discernible reason.

Even as his vision blurs with tears he refuses to shed, his eyes are drawn to the terminal for the Staten Island Ferry. Perhaps it's the result of an alien probe or a CIA conspiracy or newly-bestowed psychic powers, but he is certain that Amy and Kate got off at that stop.

"Ryan! Call Tory and have her pull the cameras from the Whitehall Street station. I think they got off the train there and headed for the ferry."

Ryan grabs his phone immediately, but Espo is less willing to blindly follow directions. "How could you possibly know that?"

"I don't know. I mean, I don't know that I _know _anything at all." Castle stops and tries to explain as clearly as possible, given that he isn't exactly clear himself. "This map caught my attention when we first arrived and I can't stop staring at it. It's significant, but I have no idea why. All I can say is that the ferry keeps jumping out at me as the answer to this strange riddle."

"Okay, Tory's looking now." Ryan glances sheepishly at Esposito before turning back to Castle. "But even if you're somehow right about them getting off there, that doesn't mean they took the ferry afterward. They could've wandered into Battery Park, or up to the Memorial. Hell, they could be aimlessly roaming the streets of Lower Manhattan right now."

"There is nothing _aimless_ about whatever they're doing. It's all part of the plan."

Espo still isn't convinced. "So, you want us to take your word for it? What if we're missing something else here? Do you want us to ignore all the other possibilities while we follow up on your ESP?"

"She's my wife and I need her back. Of course I don't want us to ignore anything, but we've got approximately _shit _to go on right now, so this seems as good as any of the other possibilities. If I'm wrong, I'm wrong…it certainly wouldn't be the first time. But I can't just stand here while they get further away." He's trying so hard to hold it together when he's sure he's only seconds away from crumpling onto the disgusting floor of a New York City subway station. He regains a bit of strength when Ryan's phone chirps and they all look at it, silently pleading for good news.

"Castle was right. On all of it. They boarded the ferry and have probably reached Staten Island by now. Unless, of course, they turned around and boarded the ferry back here." Ryan catches the glares of the other two and hurries to backtrack. "But, no, it's likely that they're there. Less likely that they're just riding a ferry back and forth all day."

The three of them briefly discuss whether they should retrieve the cruiser, but ultimately decide to retrace Kate's steps in case any additional clues have been dropped along the way. As they travel, they update Gates on their progress, leaving out the ridiculousness of Castle's insight into the mind of a serial killer. Then Tory gives them their next step; Kate and Amy got off the ferry and boarded a train on the Staten Island Railway. That leaves them with another mess of possible stops, but at least they're contained to a specific route, one with more cameras at each station.

He's been silent for a while by the time they arrive at the St. George Terminal on Staten Island, but Ryan nudges him with his elbow. "Any more premonitions?"

"No. Nothing." Castle looks around. The place is huge and he has no idea where to go from here. "Maybe we can find a map of the train route?"

"Bro, there are probably dozens of those in here."

"Okay, but we know they got off the ferry, same as we just did, so let's look for whichever directory is closest to us. Then we'll assume the most direct path between here and the railway platform, looking for any other map along the way."

It's not a perfect plan, but there's nothing else to do and he reiterates that Tyson needs them to keep playing along. There will be some mind games, but nothing that will screw them up completely.

Sure enough, there is a huge poster of the SIR line on the wall in front of them and they need no more than a few seconds to know that he's correct again. On the corner of the map, probably scrawled with a Sharpie and uninteresting to anyone else, is a "3." It doesn't take a giant leap to guess that there's an "X" and a "K" elsewhere in the terminal.

He wants to start running, skip ahead to whatever awaits them at the end of this trail of clues, close some of the distance between Kate and him. But that's not how this has been scripted and he is careful to trace the obvious steps to where the women had boarded the train. Both Ryan and Espo are deferring to him now, and he's not sure if he's proud or completely unnerved. It doesn't take them long to find the directories with the expected letters subtly scribbled in the corners, and they freeze in front of a fourth poster near the train's platform. A piece of paper is tucked into the plastic frame, folded and easily ignored by New Yorkers who care little about a gruesome treasure hunt.

Esposito just nods, so Castle reaches forward and opens it for the next mysterious message.

_To the one I can always count on,_

_Inspiration can come be found anywhere, from John Calvin to Ian Fleming to a gorgeous homicide detective. Don't ignore it; it's there for a reason._

The detectives await an explanation or translation or anything else he might have to offer, so he reads it a couple of times and tries to put something together. "Well, both the second dedication and this one seems to have directives within them. 'Remember it well, and let it guide you forward' in reference to Kate's past. 'Don't ignore it' in reference to something that has inspired her. And there must be something important about John Calvin. Ian Fleming wrote the novel that inspired me to become an author and Kate obviously inspired me to write the Nikki Heat books, so both of those fit here. But John Calvin?"

"Who's John Calvin?" Espo is impatient again.

"He was a French theologian during the Protestant Reformation. Big on predestination and the idea that God could save the human soul from eternal damnation. Really, he's got nothing to do with me." Then he stops, looking back at the list of SIR stations and pointing excitedly at the route. "Shit, that's it. This dedication is telling us where they got off."

"Huguenot?"

"Historically speaking, the Huguenots were Protestants who were inspired by John Calvin." He hurries them along. "Do you really want me to deliver an entire lecture about 16th century France? Let's go!"

By the time they board the train and ride the half hour to their stop, they welcome a bit of good news from Tory, who has already pulled the next batch of cameras and saves them the trouble of relying upon Castle's guesses, as accurate as they have been so far. Apparently, Amy Barrett can be seen placing their next clue at the station. Tory can't tell what it is from the video feed, only that it was small enough to have fit in Amy's bag and doesn't appear to be all that heavy.

They get off the train and follow Tory's directions to the item that has been left behind for them. He can't help the shudder that rocks him when he sees the familiar green and white nylon rope, though its purpose is less fatal this time. Now it's simply binding a collection of sticks and twigs together, forming what appears to be a crude replica of an intersection's street name signs, the street names themselves probably written with the same marker that had decorated the SIR directories.

Ryan looks on curiously and pulls out his phone. "That's gotta be near here, right?"

"Yeah, gotta be." Esposito takes the bundle, turning it over in his hands. "And these sticks might be from the same place as the leaf we found in Beckett's car. They look pretty common to me, but maybe they'll mean something later. Either way, the lab can figure it out."

Ryan holds his phone out so they can see the map. "Guys, the intersection is a mile away. I'll ask Tory to pull traffic cams while we see if anything was left in plain sight."

The three men take off, hope and adrenaline as high as they have been. They're in a largely residential area, so maybe Kate's being held in one of the houses on a quiet, tree-lined street, a simple contrast to the horror of being abducted by 3XK. There must be more to Tyson's game, a twist yet to come, but Castle can't help but think the chase will have to stop soon.

* * *

A/N: While writing this chapter (and those yet to come), I did some research into everything from MTA routes to John Calvin, but I'm an expert on absolutely none of it. Any mistakes are all mine, and I apologize.


	4. Chapter 4

_*Three days into his imprisonment*_

"You're recycling old tricks, Tyson? There's no way Kate will fall for that. She'll remember the last time and she'll know it wasn't me."

Castle was restrained in the hospital bed again, the same position in which he'd spent the majority of the past few days. He supposed he'd be significantly achier, a combination of the injuries he'd sustained in his not-so-accidental car accident and the inability to stretch more than a few short times a day, if it hadn't been for the steady stream of drugs provided by Dr. Nieman. They dulled all things emotional and physical, so he worked hard to focus on his argument with the serial killer seated at his bedside. Tyson had been explaining more about what had happened on the day of the wedding, making sure Castle was filled in about the past before they co-conspired on plans for the future. But the idea that a lookalike had paid to have Castle's car destroyed seemed like a mistake, and he wasn't afraid to call Tyson out.

Tyson just laughed. "It's great that you're questioning my methods from where I have you strapped down to a bed after kidnapping you from your own wedding. I think I know what I'm doing here."

"But Kate won't-"

"No, Castle! Perception is reality. She'll believe it's you on the surveillance because it goes to the very heart of all her insecurities. Every important man in her life has eventually let her down. Her training officer. Her captain. Her own father and his love affair with the bottle. It doesn't matter that you were proven innocent once before…she'll think you really left her this time. Add in your little mob friend and it's a no-brainer. It's so much easier for her to have doubt than hope."

He was crushed by that, the idea that Kate could ever believe something so unfathomable to him. He had to make it out of his prison, had to get back to his fiancée and promise himself to her in front of their family and friends, and he had to do it without planning her abduction and murder first. Weariness clawed at him, the insanity of it all, but there was nothing to do but sink back into his pillow and listen to Tyson recount more of the story, the description of the fiery crash told so calmly, until Castle drifted into a heavy sleep again.

* * *

_*16 days into his imprisonment*_

His physical wounds had healed quickly, or so he was told, but his body's natural rhythms were so terribly manipulated each day and night that he was losing his tenuous hold on reality. For a while it was clear that he was being given some sort of stimulant each morning, just to be brought crashing down each night with a depressant. There were pills and drinks and the occasional injection from Dr. Nieman, all helping him maintain a strict cycle of alertness and rest. Then, with no warning about what was about to happen, he was kept awake for days, death suddenly seeming like the best possible end to his hell. The doctor eventually eased him back from the edge of psychosis, blessing him with nightmare-filled sleep he was almost too grateful to embrace. He wasn't sure if he mumbled his appreciation or whether it was just another fuzzy dream.

When he eventually woke again, there was one other reason to thank Dr. Nieman; she seemed to be making a series of videos and voice recordings in which she recited the date as a way of introducing each of her statements. While knowing how much time was passing during his captivity was disheartening, it was also one small part of the real world, grounding him just enough to keep him from giving up entirely. In his persistent state of confusion, it was rare for him to understand much else of what she was saying in the recordings, but until it concerned him directly, he found it difficult to care.

That changed abruptly when he awakened to a painful chill wracking his feverish body.

"Hurts." He attempted to sit up, surprised to find that he was unrestrained. Not that he could have made a run for it when every joint ached so fiercely. "Everything hurts."

A cool cloth was placed over his forehead, and he was encouraged to lie back down. "Mr. Castle, you've come down with an illness and it's taking a lot out of you. Please relax and let me focus on your recovery."

"An illness?"

"Dengue Fever."

"From a mosquito?" His head hurt terribly, but he was proud of himself for asking an intelligent question.

Dr. Nieman just sighed, apparently irritated once more by his inability to shut up. "Usually Dengue Fever comes from mosquitoes, yes. In this case, I was conducting a bit of an experiment. A partial blood transfusion. A old colleague of mine has done extensive work with the disease, so I was able to borrow what I needed from him, and here we are."

"But you're a plastic surgeon."

"Yes, Mr. Castle, I am. But that means I'm a doctor. A _scientist_. Please don't impugn my level of intelligence or skill because you think I do nothing but give women a nicer nose or a bigger chest." She flashed her eerie smile over his bed; for the first time, he saw that Tyson was seated on his other side. "And Jerry has asked me to step outside my area of expertise in order to help him. In turn, he's promised me quite the brilliant opportunity once we have our hands on your gorgeous fiancée."

Castle turned toward Tyson. "Why do you need me to be sick?"

"Castle, you still don't _get_ it, and I was counting on you being so much smarter than that. None of this is what I need…it's only what I want. You being sick simply creates chaos. Confusion. A big fucking mess when the good detective has you back and can't figure out where you've been."

* * *

_*26 days into his imprisonment*_

He hadn't fully recovered when he decided to make a video for Kate, the fatigue fading for small moments, just long enough for him to recognize that he might not make it out alive. There was no thought given to how he might get the video to her, his dead body likely to disappear forever, but he couldn't sit idle any longer. And other than offhand remarks about the genius crime that Castle was expected to script for Tyson – something so heinous that Castle still couldn't fully process it – nothing had been discussed. The occasional crude jokes about Kate's fate, the idea that a trail of clues could be left to taunt them all, but no brainstorming about how to bring it about. Waiting for that day could be enough to kill him; if not, planning his fiancée's death certainly would.

In the meantime, he'd put his observational skills to use, paying close attention to the routines of his captors, the small ways in which their behavior changed if they were leaving him for the night or for a much shorter amount of time. He was rarely shackled anymore, which made him more certain there was no easy escape. With his fever lingering and his body so drained of energy, he wasn't sure he would get far anyway. But everything Dr. Nieman had been using to record her "severely-drug-a-patient-and-infect-him-with-a-terrible-tropical-disease" experiment was just a few feet away, and with enough time alone, he was able to pull himself upright just long enough to say a few words to Kate.

_Kate, if you're seeing this…well, if you're seeing this, I'm probably dead. I want you to know, I never intended to leave you, not like this, not on our wedding day, but I – it wasn't my choice. I wish I could tell you what's going on, I wish I could explain…but just know that I love you. I've always loved you. Always._

He realized belatedly that he could have mentioned Tyson and Nieman and the way they'd managed to imprison him, but the truth was that he really didn't know what was going on or how to explain, and the last thing he wanted to do was send Kate down a new rabbit hole with almost no evidence. It wasn't about giving her an opportunity to avenge his death; it was about his love for her. He kept the message as it was recorded, simple and sweet. Slipping the spare memory card into his pillow case, he crawled back into bed and was asleep before he could reconsider.

The following day, he stole a few pages from the back of one of Nieman's notebooks and wrote letters to his mother, Alexis, and Kate, deciding to keep them much like the video; they were focused on his love for them and his hopes for their futures, but left out anything about his disappearance, afraid to leave them with the need to chase a ghost.

The manipulation of his sleep cycles started up again a few days later, Dr. Nieman determining that his body could withstand more of the torture that she'd suspended during his illness. The psychosis settled in quickly, too many hours awake and highly stimulated leading to hallucinations, and random periods of rest dropping him to new levels of depression. He wasn't sure how much longer he could hold on, Tyson watching and waiting, as though Castle was an animal being fattened for slaughter. His mind was too damn clear, sharpened by one set of drugs, for him to hide from the reality of what was happening; he was too weak from another series of drugs to be able to stop it.

It shouldn't have been a surprise to anyone that he snapped one afternoon. Dr. Nieman was her typically Stepford self and Tyson was throwing around Kate's name far too casually, when Castle noticed that Tyson was armed. He didn't care why the gun was there, only that it was suddenly within reach, calling to him like a familiar friend. Quickly sitting up in his bed, he threw his head forward and into Tyson's nose, grabbing for the gun in the moment of confusion and pain. He heard Dr. Nieman scream while the two men wrestled for the weapon.

After it went off, everything became blissfully silent. Except maybe for the ringing in his ears.

But the pain was sharp. Too sharp. Along his side and not the fatal wound that might have been a blessing. And as Dr. Nieman cleaned him up and bandaged him with a reprimanding glare, Tyson leaned over and made his voice heard.

"You're lucky I want you alive."

* * *

_*42 days into his imprisonment*_

It took another couple of weeks for him to finally break. After the incident with the gun, Tyson punished him by controlling – and often withholding – his meals, in addition to the narcotic roller coaster Castle was already riding at the hands of Dr. Nieman. Despondent didn't even begin to describe the situation and there was no other choice.

"You mentioned that you want to leave clues behind? A way to taunt everyone after Kate has been abducted?" He was speaking as assertively as possible from within the restraints to which he'd been reintroduced.

Tyson rose from his chair on the opposite side of the room, making his way over to Castle's bed slowly, the anticipation almost too much. "Yes."

"Then I think I should write a series of book dedications."


	5. Chapter 5

They arrive at the intersection of Huguenot and Woodrow, and he's strangely spooked by how normal it is, nondescript and peaceful. While Kate was being kidnapped miles away, these modest homes saw families sitting down to dinner. As he, Ryan, and Esposito chased leaves and sticks and peculiar book dedications, the kids inside finished their homework and their parents exchanged stories of their respective work days. And now, he's standing on a quiet corner, desperately looking for his wife or some new clue about where she might be, and these houses will have their porch lights turned off for the night, no need to worry about anything else until morning.

There are uniforms with them now; he and the boys may be way out of their jurisdiction, but this is about Detective Kate Beckett, and any typical territorial pissing match will be ignored in favor of finding her. They all look to him now, awaiting instructions from the civilian who knows too much.

Ryan puts a hand on his shoulder. "Any ideas?"

"Nothing." And he hates himself a little because something feels terribly familiar. He knows this neighborhood, but he's certain he's never been here. "I've got nothing."

Ultimately they decide to spread out and conduct a search of the immediate area, knowing that they've been brought to this particular intersection for a reason. Jerry Tyson did not have a bundle of sticks tied into the shape of a street sign just because he was feeling crafty. It doesn't take long before his hope is heightened.

"Over here!"

An officer Castle doesn't know is standing guard next to a light post. Quickly scanning it, he finds a notice about a lost dog and a flyer about an upcoming event at the local church, but sandwiched between them is a familiar page. He carefully peels it away and cradles it in his hands; the light shining above gives it an eerie glow.

_To one of my favorite fighters of crime,_

_You once said "…__if you don't believe in even the possibility of magic you'll never ever find it." _

_Believe now. _

There's something off about it, but he can't figure out what it is before Esposito is taking the dedication from him. And he wants to believe. He wants that so badly. So he shakes it off and looks up at the detective.

"Has anything else been found yet? I mean, the dedication is great, but there's no clue about where they've gone. There must be something else here, right? What about the traffic cams?"

Ryan joins them then, a frown on his face. "Well, I can answer that last one. All traffic cams for this neighborhood have been down for the last hour or so. No known cause, but they're working on fixing the problem."

Of course. Tyson was fine with them having access to video feeds for as long as it helped lead them to this point; he's changed the rules of the game now and they don't have that help. What the hell are they supposed to do now?

"What the hell are we supposed to do now?" Good. Esposito is just as frustrated.

And Ryan is still the voice of reason. "We spend a little more time here, combing the intersection until we're sure we haven't missed anything obvious. If there are no clues, or new suggestions about how to find clues, then maybe Tyson doesn't want us to find anything."

Esposito jumps in. "Or it's just too dark to find whatever it is."

Castle's pissed. "So we just give up on it. On her?"

"Of course not. But maybe we go back to the precinct and regroup. Put all of our information up on the mur-, on the board and see if any of it makes more sense when we're not chasing the exact clues that Tyson has left for us at the exact times he's wanted them found." He can tell it pains Ryan to have to put a stop to any of this and he almost feels bad for snapping at them.

With a shake of the head and a few choice words muttered under his breath, he wanders around to where the uniforms are searching diligently for anything out of the ordinary. But somehow, Castle knows they'll find nothing. That there's nothing more to find here. It's time to take Ryan's advice and head back to the 12th so that they can gather all of the evidence, refocus, and maybe get a fresh perspective of what they've found so far. His mind is reeling, with so much to consider and more that lingers just out of reach.

* * *

When they get back to the precinct, he finds a new cell phone waiting for him on Kate's desk; it's a small reassurance, but he's comforted now that there's a way for her to contact him again. Espo is in Gates' office, making sure she's up to speed, and Castle is grateful that she's keeping the same long hours they are. Ryan is just returning from the break room and hands Castle a mug before they move over to the murder board. They lean against the desk there, side by side, and the silence is too much.

"Just ask me, Ryan." The detective has been practically twitching, obviously curious and attempting to hold back his questions in lieu of bothering the man whose wife is missing.

"How did you do that thing with the MTA poster? I mean, how'd you look at that and know they'd gone to Staten Island? I know you always have crazy theories about our cases…conspiracies or aliens or zombies…but today was something different."

"Honestly, I have no idea." He takes a sip of his coffee and tries to come up with a reasonable answer. "And it was more than just the Staten Island thing. The déjà vu has been bugging me all day. That sounds exactly like one of my wild theories, I know, but this isn't the same as when I say stupid shit to drive Beckett crazy."

"What else felt weird to you?"

"The ferry terminal, that neighborhood. And honestly? Even the dedications."

"Okay, but the book dedications _should_ feel familiar to you. You've written a couple dozen of them in your career."

He shrugs, not entirely convinced that it's as straightforward as that. "I guess. And maybe all of this is just a result of understanding Tyson too well. Our minds are probably far more alike than not; he set this up perfectly to play me. It could be as simple as my predicting where Kate and Amy went because it's the route I would have taken. I don't know anymore."

It's clear that Ryan wants to push him further, but Esposito returns and slams a folder onto the desk. "Gates wants us to update the board with our new information, but she said if nothing clicks immediately, we should go home and come back fresh in the morning."

"She's not wrong."

For the first time in his years with the team, Castle legitimately wants to hurt Ryan. It's not fair, but the feeling is visceral and it takes all his control to keep his voice even. "Then I guess we'll have to make sure something clicks."

In an attempt to make peace or right wrongs or just move away from Castle's anger, Ryan hurries to flip the Susan Watts murder board so that he's got a blank slate. Then he begins to add everything they've found or learned in the past few hours. The leaf and the sticks were located at different points in their search, but are probably connected to each other. They've all agreed that they look like the type of thing found in a million parks, reserves, and campgrounds; without anything else, they are less than helpful.

Someone has made copies of all four book dedications, so Ryan fastens them to the board. Castle needs to re-read them all, make sense of the words Tyson chose, but he'll wait until the rest of the information is there for them to study. A small MTA map gets posted next, the escape path traced with a highlighter, and then Ryan writes a careful list of each stop alongside it. There's a quick note made about the traffic cams and the homeless man, but then the cap clicks over the top of the dry erase marker and all three men take a deep breath.

He steps forward then, intent on finding something that will stop him from going back to the loft alone. Starting with the dedications, he intentionally skips over the third one, working under the assumption that it served its purpose when it directed them to the Huguenot stop; his instinct has served him well today, so he won't ignore it now. It's just a matter of dissecting the rest of them.

_I'm not sure I can write it any other way._

Tyson's writing as him, right? So, he's apologizing – to Kate? – for not being able to figure out where she is before 3XK kills her? For not being able to rewrite the ending of Tyson's story?

_Your past has never defined you, though its influence is undeniable. Remember it well, and let it guide you forward._

What is significant about her past, other than her mother's murder? Or is that it? Her focus on justice for victims? He shakes his head and moves on.

_You once said "…__if you don't believe in even the possibility of magic you'll never ever find it." Believe now. _

It was so long ago, but he remembers it clearly, the murder of Vivien Marchand, the psychic medium. Kate was skeptical of all of it, everything frivolous and fun and full of wonder, and she'd finally confronted him to ask why it mattered to him that she believe. So, he'd told her.

He'd told her.

_He'd _told her.

But the dedication reads, "_You_ once said."

Fuck. The dedication wasn't written to Kate, it was written to him. His eyes go wide as he scans the others, because if the last one wasn't written to Kate, were any of them?

_To my heart, mind, and soul,_

_To the one who rejoices in the smiles of others,_

_To the one I can always count on,_

_To one of my favorite fighters of crime,_

They're intentionally vague and the wording is a bit odd, but suddenly he knows he's been looking at them all wrong. And not only are they written _to_ him, they seem to have been written _by _him. Jerry Tyson has been in his life for a long damn time and he figures he's been spied on for far too much of it, but they hadn't even met when the psychic was killed so he couldn't have overheard that particular quote. He briefly considers the idea that Kate might have created them, but she's been on the run with Amy Barrett all night and couldn't have typed these up. It makes no sense, but he's strangely sure he's the author.

He's panicking and his legs are increasingly unsteady, but he forces himself to stay calm just enough to study the board for another minute. The message about his past and the reminder to remember it well. The leaf and the sticks. And Ryan's bold block letters noting the intersection of Huguenot and Woodrow.

Tears are in his eyes and he roughly rakes his hands through his hair as too many memories come flooding back, but he turns to the detectives. "We're not going home tonight. I know where they've got her."


	6. Chapter 6

_*45 days into his imprisonment*_

In moments of perfect lucidity, he wanted to die. He certainly didn't deserve to survive after collaborating with a serial killer to kidnap and murder his almost-wife. But those moments were extremely rare; Dr. Nieman hadn't let up on the manipulation of his body's natural cycles of wakefulness, the torture effective in keeping him under Tyson's control. He and Tyson had been working closely for a few days, and it wasn't often that he didn't feel like an obscenely immoral puppet.

He was forced to swallow pills that brought him to such a productive high that he probably could have planned another fifteen violent crimes, the ideas coming furiously and showing no signs of slowing. At times he swore he could actually feel the neurons firing, could almost see the mapping of his brain as he offered more suggestions to Tyson.

Not long afterward, he would be slammed into a drug-induced sleep full of hot flashes and nightmares, his voice made hoarse by screams he never remembered. There were crescent-shaped marks left on the skin of his palms and an ever-present ache from where he pulled against the restraints that were in place more often than not, probably to counter the unpredictability of the narcotics.

After Castle had finally snapped, reaching out to Tyson and ready to help, they'd had an oddly calm discussion about the basic structure of the plan; Castle would draft the outline and fill in the key plot points, he'd undergo some sort of memory wipe, then he'd be released to resume his life as it was before his wedding day. He was unclear – and more than a little concerned – about the plan to mess with his head, but Tyson's only response when asked was that Castle wasn't the only one who "knew a guy." Well, that and the promise that Castle wouldn't really want to remember any part of his compliance anyway. It was probably true.

And it was absurd, every aspect of what was happening. The fact that they each had a notebook in which to take notes, like it was some sort of committee meeting at the office. The way they were discussing illicit strategies after dinner, Tyson's eyes lighting up in a way he was sure his own did when he theorized with Kate in the middle of a case; crime planning replacing crime solving as the foreplay of choice. They had agreed upon the idea of the book dedications easily, Tyson seeing it as a deeply personal way to screw with Castle's head while leading him on with just enough information. Public transportation seemed like an excellent way to ensure that cameras would capture some key moments along whatever route they predetermined, so Tyson brought in a large MTA map for them to study before they finalized those details.

Suddenly, Castle's head snapped up, slow in putting it all together. "Wait a minute. You actually want these clues to help me? You want me to catch you?

Tyson laughed, chilling and far too real. "No, no, no. I don't want you to _catch_ me. If anything, the catching will go the other way around. No, I just want you to _chase_ me."

Castle sat with that for a minute, and Tyson let him. "Okay, so we're planning a crime in which the perfect clues are left. In which you can rely on our team, access to the city's cameras, etc., to help me figure out where you've taken Kate. My memory will be wiped in some way that you refuse to share with me, but that's only to keep me from remembering my role in this." He paused, knowing that Tyson wasn't that charitable. "No, you're erasing my memory so that I don't remember everything, because the key to this is your endgame. You want me to run at this without thinking, grabbing at each new clue and refusing to listen to any reason. You want me to be so blinded by my need to find Kate that I don't realize that I've fallen into your trap until it's too late. Until you've got both of us."

Tyson's smile was confirmation enough.

* * *

_*47 days into his imprisonment*_

"So tell me, Castle, why did you become a mystery writer? When did you first tap into your dark side? As I recall, the last time we tried to have this conversation we were interrupted by a phone call."

Castle was just barely waking up, but he clawed at consciousness to make eye contact with Tyson. "You know, I'm not the only one who pushes for answers to questions that shouldn't be asked. Drop it."

It was absolutely the wrong thing to say. Tyson silently waved Dr. Nieman over to Castle's bedside and she prepared a syringe; god only knew what he was about to be subjected to, but he was certain he was too weak to hold back his secrets for long.

He had no idea how much time it took to break him that time, but from somewhere deep inside his own head, he heard himself tell a tale of years before.

_I had an extremely lonely childhood and an active imagination. I'd never been great at making friends, especially because I bounced from school to school, but I learned how to entertain myself by escaping into the stories I created. Looking back, I was the perfect target, someone weak enough to be manipulated by the promise of friendship, and smart enough to get away with something that never should have happened at all._

_When I was 11, a group of boys started inviting me to sit with them at lunch, to hang out after school. They were popular kids and it made me suspicious, of course, but not enough that I was going to turn away from the sudden attention. I wanted so desperately to be well-liked. When they finally confided in me that we were all going to play a prank on another kid in our class, a kid even more ignored than I was, I couldn't help the swell of pride at being part of their childish gang. It was so easy to turn against someone weaker if it meant that I got to be the victor for once._

_We befriended him just long enough to coax him into meeting us at a park in Westchester County in the middle of the night. Specifically it was an area of the park known as Hollander's Woods, far away from routine patrols and intimidating enough for what we'd planned. It was early February and to say that this kid was naïve would be an understatement, but we knew that and used it to our advantage. I honestly don't remember the exact story we used to get him there, but whatever it was, it worked. And once he arrived, we were nothing but cruel. We managed to take his coat, pushed him around a bit, chased him through the trees, locked him in a maintenance shed, and listened just to hear him cry for his mommy and daddy._

_Once we'd gotten our kicks, we left him there. It was dangerous and stupid; if a ranger hadn't been bored enough to wander through that corner of the park at the right time to hear him scream, who knows what might have happened to him. And, surprisingly, he ended up telling on all of us, but here's the thing…I'd set up an alibi before I'd snuck out that night. I'd known what we were going to do was wrong and I set up a goddamn alibi and went along with all of it because I got to feel the rush of that power. _

_That night haunted me for so long. I suppose it still does. Because how could I have forgotten everything I knew – years of loneliness and hurt – and abruptly inflicted pain on a kid who knew those same things? How could I have been so enthralled by the promise of being stronger, smarter, and more wanted? How could being evil have come so easily to me, if only for a night? The premeditation. The alibi. How could I? _

_Years later, it made me wonder about the criminals we hear about every day. Are the assaults and kidnappings and murders committed by truly heinous people? Or are the bad guys simply normal people who were too swiftly enchanted by something they'd been missing in their lives? I started writing my way through those thoughts as an attempt to process them, but my knack for storytelling came into play and they became mystery novels, much less about the perpetrators themselves and more about the way they were finally caught and punished. Because I never was. And I think I should have been._

* * *

_*57 days into his imprisonment*_

It was done. Castle had put together a horrifying game that he himself would have to play, full of the clever clues and tortuous twists one would expect to find in any of his books. He'd figured out how to get both Jerry Tyson and Kelly Nieman into the precinct, under the watchful eye of everyone but Kate Beckett, who would run off alone, guard down and vulnerable. He'd planned the entire escape route, from the meeting point with a yet-unknown accomplice to the site of Tyson's ultimate trap, and suggested a few of the not-so-random objects that would be left behind. Knowing that he had to lead himself to where they were going to hold Kate, Castle wrote his book dedications; each one was carefully worded to help him along, while being subtle enough to guarantee that he wouldn't be able to skip ahead in the chase.

He questioned his own sanity and wondered if he'd ever be able to atone for his newest sins.

"Mr. Castle, it's time to get dressed. You're going to be running an errand before we let you go back to the city, and Jerry will be here to pick you up shortly." Castle blinked in surprise at the news, while Dr. Nieman draped clean clothes over the foot of the bed and moved to unfasten each of the restraints.

She left him alone and he changed as quickly as his weakened body would allow, accidentally knocking his pillow onto the floor as he maneuvered around the bed. He startled when he heard the click of the plastic hitting the floor. _Shit._ The memory card from so long ago. How could he have forgotten that? He hurriedly picked it up, reaching into the pillow case for the letters he knew must be there too, and managing to slip everything into his shoe for safekeeping. A moment later he had the foresight to grab a pen, a writer's instinct more than anything else, and tucked it into his pocket. By the time Tyson arrived, Castle was ready to go, though simultaneously terrified of readjusting to the outside world. The sunlight nearly blinded him, but he ducked into the waiting car and closed his eyes as soon as he could.

Several hours passed – he was relatively certain – before they crossed into Canada; he wasn't even going to ask how his passport had ended up in Tyson's hands. He drifted in and out of sleep most of the trip, but was awakened at some point by a phone call in which Tyson asked about the currents off the coast and where to "dump him so he doesn't get completely lost." It made him reflexively wiggle his foot against the items he'd hid there; he wondered if there'd be a safer place for them away from whatever water he was headed for. He was weirdly comfortable about the fact that Tyson would continue to keep him alive, their plans requiring it, but he needed a way to preserve the card and letters.

Then a bit of luck went his way; the car stopped in front of a bank and, for once, Tyson's demand was everything Castle could have wanted.

"What are we doing?"

Tyson handed him a key. "You're going to retrieve something from my safe deposit box. You're authorized on the account, so you'll have no problem getting in. There's a large envelope I need, and don't even think about opening it. It's nothing for you to worry about."

As Castle walked into the bank, his only regret was his decision to keep the involvement of Tyson and Nieman to himself. Now that he was going to survive, having written proof of everything that had happened and, even more importantly, everything that was about to happen, would have made all the difference in the world. Unfortunately, Tyson's eyes were on him and he was going to be pushing his luck enough. At least this was one way to make sure that the video and letters eventually found their way to the ones he loved.

He left the bank only minutes later, Tyson's envelope in his hands and a duplicate safe deposit key in his shoe.

* * *

_*59 days into his imprisonment*_

He was camping near the beach? He wasn't entirely sure. A man he hadn't seen before had been spending time with him in his tent. But camping? Where was Tyson? And when was he going home?

As night descended upon him, he was grateful that he'd taken the time the day before to tear a thread from his shirt and break apart his pen to use part of it as a ridiculous needle; he'd been able to clumsily sew the safe deposit key into his pants, making it far more secure than it had been before. And had he waited any longer to do it, he's not sure he could have remembered.

Even then, the past several weeks were blurring together. He was sick? He wrote a book? Instead of making it to his wedding, he played a game? Or maybe none of that happened. Maybe he'd just been knocked out when his car rolled off the side of the road. He'd been on his way to marry Kate, and there had been an accident. An accident. And then he was falling asleep again.

* * *

_*64 days into his imprisonment*_

He was unconscious when the Coast Guard found him floating aimlessly in a dinghy, his body sunburned and terribly dehydrated. But they were there to help him find his way back home.


	7. Chapter 7

It's been 34 years, but he feels the angry twist of guilt as they drive toward Hollander's Woods; it's uncomfortably tangled with the anxiety of trying to reach Kate in time and the need to explain everything to Ryan and Esposito.

Esposito is ever the skeptic. "Just go over this one more time, bro, 'cause it still sounds like one of my tia's telenovelas."

"Hey, he's been right about everything else."

But Castle understands how crazy it sounds, so he tries to organize his memories enough to form a coherent story. "Everything about tonight has seemed too familiar to me, like I once had a dream about some of the things we saw or did as we followed Tyson's clues. It made no sense, so I tried to ignore that creepy feeling and focus on the evidence Ryan added to the murder board."

"And then you realized that you had written the book dedications to yourself." Ryan is still captivated by the entire scenario, and his voice barely hides his awe.

"Yes, I realized they were for me, and probably _from _me, which made me think back to my past and what I was supposed to remember. The leaf and sticks obviously pointed me in the direction of something like a park, reserve, or hiking trail – places that aren't unusual in and of themselves – but then I saw the list of stops we'd made tonight. Our dead end was at the intersection of Huguenot and Woodrow, so I wondered why Tyson would bring us there. And I think it's because the initials are H. W., the same as the one place from my childhood that I wish I could forget."

"Hollander's Woods."

"Exactly." Castle takes a deep breath, still trying to put the rest of it together. "And that realization brought back a lot of broken memories from the time I was gone. I still haven't figured out all the details, and I don't know how I could have helped put Kate in danger, but I was there. I worked with Tyson to plan this."

"Then how do we know you're not still part of it? Maybe Tyson's got you hypnotized or something." One hard look from Ryan, something that so rarely surfaces in their partnership, has Espo backing down quickly. "Okay, okay. You've gotten us this far. Let's go rescue your wife."

* * *

The three of them walk toward a heavily wooded portion of the park, grateful for the full moon that casts the occasional sliver of light through the trees and the flashlights that sweep their path. They've reached the beginning of a hiking trail that won't greet its regular visitors for another several hours, and he remembers the maintenance shed being somewhere nearby. Still, so much could have changed since then. It's only the chill surging through his body – one that has nothing to do with the freezing night – that convinces him that they're in the right place.

"You sure we shouldn't wait for back-up? It's not too late to pull back."

Ryan's hesitant and Espo isn't jumping in to reassure him, so Castle makes a final plea. "If we go storming in with the cavalry, Kate's as good as dead before we even lay eyes on her. It's game over if Tyson thinks he's about to die anyway. He expects the three of us, so we'll give him the three of us."

Espo slowly nods. "It's a good idea. Maybe the only chance we've got to get Beckett out."

It's then that Castle's flashlight catches the side of a run-down structure ahead, smaller than his 11-year-old self recalls and looking like it hasn't been used by the park staff in some time. They're too far away to possibly know whether Kate is inside, and they definitely can't confirm whether Tyson and Nieman are nearby, but Castle reminds himself not to run at the building. When he feels a firm hand grip his arm in warning, he knows Espo sensed his self-control weakening, too.

"Stick to the plan."

He will. He has to.

Ryan and Esposito look at him one more time, then at each other, before they leave him behind. He watches as they split from each other, guns drawn as they creep through the trees, and he can imagine Kate laughing at the fact that he is _finally _staying put; her instructions to do the same have been ignored by him for years, and he's pretty sure she's given up hope that he'll ever listen. Once the guys have disappeared, he turns his full focus to the maintenance shed, taking a deep breath and waiting.

Everything is quiet for a long time, maybe too long, and he wonders if they've completely screwed this up.

When he feels the muzzle of the gun press against the back of his head, he's almost relieved.

"Get on your knees." Tyson's familiar voice isn't loud, but it still rattles the silence of the pre-dawn hour and settles uncomfortably in the cold air.

Castle shakes, but does his best to comply without giving the man any reason to pull the trigger. The freezing ground is immediately painful and he winces in the dark, consciously swallowing any smartass remark he might normally make. He's alone here and has to rely on Ryan and Esposito to do their jobs.

Kate's life depends on it.

He supposes his does, too.

"You know, Castle, I really have to thank you. If you weren't such a damn good author, and one with a darker side than most would give you credit for, I'm not sure this would have worked out so well. But it's just like we planned it." He laughs, and Castle closes his eyes. "A beautifully scripted crime, tantalizing clues, a fast pace, and your girl as the bait. There was never going to be a way for you to resist running right at me, back-up be damned."

"I brought Detectives Ryan and Esposito with me."

Another laugh. "Yes, I watched them abandon you here. Don't worry, they'll take their time approaching the shed, and I've left enough inside to keep them busy for a few minutes once they get there. You'll be dead before they can investigate much further than that."

"But where's Kate?"

"She's in capable hands, enjoying a short hike up the trail. I'm sure the gunshot will scare her a bit, but there's really nothing I can do about that."

Castle grins, a little sad that Tyson can't see it from where he stands. "You're right. It's too bad she can't be reassured that I'm fine."

Tyson presses more insistently with the gun, causing Castle's head to bow forward. "A bullet through your skull is far from fine."

"Yes, but I won't be the one who gets shot." He has to hurry now, firm but quick. "You were right about me being a damn good author. But that's the thing…_I _am the writer here, and _I _get to decide when the story is over. And sometimes there's room for one final twist."

There's no time for Tyson to respond, no chance for Castle to see the moment he realizes what is happening; Esposito takes the shot from afar and Tyson is dead before Castle can register the sudden weight of the body draped over his back. He scrambles out from beneath it, the adrenaline setting off a series of shudders that refused to be stifled. One hand scrubs his face, the other frantically brushing himself clean of whatever he imagines to be clinging to him, and he has to keep himself from pacing. Then he gathers himself enough to look down at Tyson's crumpled form, the anger still there beneath the knowledge that it's finally over.

"The end."

He doesn't stop staring at the body until Esposito steps up to his side, more cautious than Castle's seen him. "You all right?"

Castle just nods.

"Okay, let these guys handle the scene." Only then does Castle notice the team of officers who are already blocking off the area, still stunned that everything happened so fast. Espo hands over a towel and jerks his head toward the trail. "Ryan's with Beckett. Let's go find them both and get the hell out of here."

As they walk, Esposito tells him that the plan went off as smoothly as anything he's seen in his time with the NYPD. He and Ryan had made their way toward the maintenance shed, allowing just enough time for Tyson to get to Castle. Then Ryan had ducked aside and awaited the back-up they'd coordinated before their arrival at the park, while Espo had circled back for the sniper rifle that had been left for him by a nearby SWAT officer. They needed whatever information they could get from Tyson about Kate's whereabouts, but as soon as they had that, picked up through the wire Castle wore, Espo was free to take the shot.

Castle sees Kate then, and it's difficult to focus on anything else. She's being helped down the trail by Ryan, a blanket over her shoulders, but she looks unharmed; he thinks he's finally breathing for the first time in the past several hours. When he can't wait any longer, he jogs to her, careful of the uneven ground and led by the small spark of joy in her eyes that manages to shine through the exhaustion and lingering fear. Both Ryan and Espo slip away to give them a private moment before they have to step back into the chaos.

Their foreheads tip together just before he kisses her, a connection that serves as a source of comfort more than anything else, then each of them drop their hands to the other's heart, a simultaneous need to feel something steady and strong. They whisper confessions and promises and everything in between, grateful to be able to say anything at all. Eventually, he pulls back just enough for them to turn toward the officers who are leading Dr. Nieman away in handcuffs.

Kate sighs. "She went so willingly. As soon as she saw that we were surrounded, she just let me go and went with them."

"Because she's that arrogant. She thinks she'll get out of this."

"Is she wrong?"

He wants to insist that she is, that it would be impossible for Nieman to walk away without a prison sentence, but they both know the justice system is flawed. "I don't know."

"Castle?"

"Hmm?"

"They said you helped them plan this. From the Susan Watts murder that set them up, to my abduction, to the way it would all end here because of something you'd done as a child. That during the two months you were gone, you were with them and putting this 'perfect crime' together, and that the only thing you hadn't realized was that they would turn your own story against you in the end."

Her voice breaks and he doesn't know what to do with the current of doubt that has wrapped itself around each of her words. He can't deny it; the facts are mostly true. But this is important and he brushes her hair away from her face, cradles her head in his hands. He lets her see everything in his eyes, because there is little he can say that will make any of this better.

"They were responsible for the car crash that kept me from our wedding and they held me captive for two months. The memories have only started to come back over the past few hours, so I'm still trying to comb through it all and find the truth. I did remember that the plan hinged on me running straight for you with no back-up, that Tyson wanted me alone so that he could finally kill me, so the boys and I made sure that we had a full team right behind us."

"And Espo really killed Tyson?"

Castle cracks a small grin, sadness dulling its typical delight. "Yeah, he really did."

They see Ryan and Espo finishing up their preliminary statements and know that they'll all have to head back to the precinct for a full debriefing. Things are so far from settled, but Kate takes a deep breath and slips her hand into his. "We'll figure it all out, with help if we need it."

"And you'll be okay?" It's all he needs to know.

She squeezes his hand and guides him toward their friends, still not smiling, but not running from him either. "We'll be okay."

* * *

A/N: The most sincere thank you to all of you who took a chance on this little story. It was such a fun and scary challenge, and your support has been greatly appreciated.


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